I forgive you.
Truly, I think I forgave you
just moments after
you hit the switch
that made the galaxies
you created inside of me
explode into the stardust
that poured out of my eyes,
and ash that would settle
in my stomach for longer
than even I imagined.
I forgive you.
You, the one with a look
that held oceans,
who did the damage
that I couldn't seem to erase.
I had fell like the rain
on my roof that night,
and drowned in the aftermath
streaming down my face.
I forgive you.
The moon keeps me
company now,
telling me stories
of how she changes
the tides of the seas that look like the one in your eyes.
Her voice is almost as calming
as yours.
I want to give you a ticket
to a seat on a spaceship,
so that you can fulfill my wish
for you to live a life full of travel.
I want to give you the chance
to see our galaxy,
all the stars,
and as many planets as you wish.
It's like I've always said:
to Pluto and back.
This way,
you know that
I still forgive you
even if you're
lightyears
away from me.
